


enchantments

by Elizabeth Culmer (edenfalling)



Series: Assorted Narnia Crossovers and AUs [20]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Book: The Silver Chair, Captivity, Dark, F/M, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Psychological Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 11:50:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8012599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edenfalling/pseuds/Elizabeth%20Culmer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One night, the Lady will let him out of the chair and not recast her spell. Rilian fears that day more than anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	enchantments

**Author's Note:**

  * For [garnet_dragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/garnet_dragon/gifts).



> _What if they had become involved in a relationship? What if Rilian had never been saved from her?_
> 
> I'm not sure if this is the definition of 'relationship' you were looking for, but it's the only one I personally find plausible between these two. :/

The first year after he fails to persuade the children and Marsh-Wiggle to free him, the year after their messy deaths, Narnia's conquest, and the drowning of his last hope, she leaves him alone each night in the chair until he learns again the utter futility of fighting its restraints.

The second year, she sits quietly on a stool in the corner of his own childhood bedroom in Cair Paravel, working at embroidery when he knows she can conjure the finest cloths from naught but a heap of dust. He raves at her, screams himself hoarse night after night (for his country, not for himself), until he learns the utter futility of this, too. He cannot move her to either pity or careless anger. He cannot summon aid. Aid came, and through his foolish weakness, his reluctance to call on Aslan's name when he was stained and broken, he forfeited his chance.

On the first night of the third year, she stays at his side and presses one delicate finger to his lips a bare minute into his broken, weary litany of hate.

"Hush," she tells him. "Hush now, be still. You know this serves no purpose. If you still believe this madness of a _lion_ who will avenge you, then better to have patience until he comes, yes? There is no sense wasting your strength here and now."

His stupid, traitor body and brain relax at her voice and touch, too used to obeying: muscle memory, learned through a dozen years of constant practice, that persists even in the hour when her enchantment lifts and resets.

And anyway, she is right.

He hates when she is right.

"My lord is learning wisdom," she says, and firelight gleams in the net of her golden hair, reflects from the points of her pearl-white teeth. "I believe that deserves a reward."

She trails her hand down from his lips, across his sternum and stomach, and stops at the laces of his trousers.

Rilian freezes.

The Lady smiles, and pulls back her hand. "Ah, but no. Not while you still hate me. That would be unkind. I shall wait until you ask. One night, you will."

She glides briskly across the carpet and out the door, leaving Rilian alone in the sudden cold sweat of his fear -- and what he fears is not that she will take him in the day, while his spell-muddled self would consent to aught she desired, but that she is right:

One night, he himself will ask.

And she will let him out of the chair and not recast her spell, because he will be hers in truth.

Rilian closes his eyes and weeps for the future.


End file.
